I'll Be Your Sun In the Night
by ShellaStarshine
Summary: 5 years after the fire in the Opera house, a father and daughter travel to Paris from Greece to buy it. But tragedy befalls soon after. The Phantom of the Opera ends up finding a love he never could have imagined to have. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Greece's Gift

Disclaimer: I do not own anything accept Alethia. Enjoy! And please, I want reviews so I can better my writing!

**Greece's Gift**

It was on a beautiful winter day that Alethia Hieros rode through the glamorous streets of Paris. The gods had blessed the weather on this wonderful day; the temperature was just low enough to allow snow to fall quietly and majestically instead of sting uncovered skin. It truly was a rare occurrence which bewildered Alethia who was accustomed the warm climate of the Mediterranean. She stuck her hand out of the carriage to allow a few snowflakes fall upon her gloved hand, and then retracted it to study the flakes. Her father sat beside her, equally enthralled by the weather. She looked over to smile at him gratefully for bringing her to the renowned city.

As a small child, her father had told her stories of Paris, creating fabricated descriptions such as how the streets were paved with gold and the feeling of love drifted through the streets like the wind. Most of the tales where of the splendor of the Opera Populaire, of the grand foyer with the curved marble staircase and the magnificence of the theater. Her father had been permitted entry as a member of the orchestra, and every time he stepped into the luxurious building, a gasp never failed to leave his lips. Alethia remembered listening to his tales of the operas, of the ballerinas, the luxurious costumes, and the Prima Donna. When word traveled to her father that the Opera house had experienced a devastating fire, her father was devastated. But that was 5 years ago. He had vowed to earn enough money to buy the charred remains and restore it to the legend it had been before. Five long years he had spent working and saving money, with loyal Alethia vowing to do the same, despite the objections from him. Greece was an accepting community, one that offered no hostility if a woman, let alone a thirteen year old girl, wanted to earned money. Now her family, if just she and her father qualified as a family, was not poor but they were not rich either, for they were blessed with a small fortune bestowed upon them from a distant relative.

Alethia's mother had died during childbirth, leaving her with her father and no one else. She was a happy baby; she seldom cried. But she always found her way into everything as if she was constantly searching for the truth, as her name betrayed.

Her father taught her the joy of books and the rapture of music. As a bold and inquisitive child, Alethia delighted herself in many instruments until she found the two she favored most - the violin and the piano. Not only did she develop an insatiable love for music, but at the young age of ten she found that she had a voice that, with practice, could be transformed into an instrument of itself. But, alas, her father knew little of manipulating a voice.

Alethia's discovery led to the remembrance of the Opera Populaire, or the images conjured in her mind as a child. Her father told her more; detailed ones that she could actually fathom now that her mind had matured. The wonder grew and her imagination soared to a point where she was begging to step foot on the marbled foyer and run her hand over the soft velvet of the cushioned seats made for the Counts and Barons and their wives and children. During the five years of their labor, she had worked as hard as her father had to obtain their right to the grand Opera Populaire, even for just the privilege of stepping into its blackened depths so that her imagination could run wild with new fodder.

The horses in front of the carriage clicked through the quiet streets, passing buildings with glorious French shutters and scaffolding, some with ugly gargoyles perched on the corners. Once and a while her father would point to a historical or famous building and give her a short anecdote of its past. Alethia enjoyed all of the passing scenery, despite the anticipation boiling in her stomach for what was to come.

Finally, when her father gasped in remembrance at the building that had just come into view, she knew that they had arrived. The carriage pulled up in front of it where two well dressed men were waiting for them on its steps. The driver hopped down from his perch and opened the small door for Alethia, and extended his hand to her. He was surprised to see her step out of the carriage on her own, completely disregarding him.

She did not mean to be rude, but she was totally awestruck by what stood before her. Her imagination took over and what she saw before her was not the scorched and blackened corpse of an old building, but the Opera Populaire in its former glory. Before her stood towering golden columns and rich mahogany doors with regal glass windows built into them. Little golden sculptures were carved into the stone above the doors. She craned her neck to see big letters spelling "Opera Populaire" over her head. Suddenly her father jerked her out of her trance with a light touch on her elbow.

"Your mouth is wide open Thia," he whispered to her while emitting a chuckle. She realized that indeed her jaw had fallen onto the ground and closed it slowly showing a little grin. She took a last glance at the spectacle, and then joined her father and the two men atop the stone steps.

"Thank you for meeting Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Andre," her father said shaking both men's hands as she walked up to them. "Ah, this is my lovely daughter, Alethia."

She curtsied to them and one of them, the one named Andre she guessed, had the audacity to take her hand kiss it. She smiled politely then both her and her father shared a look. In Greece, her beauty was quite known and for that reason she classified her beauty as a bit of a curse. She couldn't go one place with out being ogled at by every man in her radius. What's more, when she tried to earn something out of merit, one of the village men always insisted on giving her special treatment as a way to earn respect and high standing with her father. It enraged her to no end. Her father knew about this problem and he was endlessly wary about the men that asked for her hand. One of the reasons she was still 18 and unmarried was for that same reason; Alethia wanted love that would last, unlike lust that lasts as long as a full moon.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mademoiselle," Andre breathed.

She withdrew her hand from his grip with a slightly annoyed look that she could not help to hide. Her father saved her some embarrassment with coming back on track with talk of the reason they had traveled to Paris.

"Despite the fire, this place still holds so much of the glowing beauty it contained before," he said.

"Ah yes, to a point," Firmin said directing Andre in the conversation. "The theatre suffered the most of the whole building," he said grimacing.

"Such a place like this could have been restoring with a bit of work, but nothing that outweighed the profits of it performances. May I ask why you never took such actions?

"Oh goodness," Andre responded, "We never even entertained the idea with all that had happened while we were the managers; of course it could have been just all bad luck." Firmin slightly squirmed on his feet at this statement.

Her father sensed something they weren't telling him. "I never really heard the true cause of the fire. Since both of you are better than anyone else to ask, could you tell me what really happened?"

Now Firmin was really squirming and Andre winced. "You mean you haven't heard of the Opera Ghost?" Andre asked as he raised an eyebrow.

Her father frowned at this, as did Alethia. "I was a member of the orchestra in the earlier days of the opera house, who is this Opera Ghost?"

The two men glanced over at Alethia, thinking that she was too fragile to hear such a story. "Ehh the girl?" Firmin questioned.

Her father, seeing Alethia's obvious disdain at the insult, sharply said "there is nothing that I keep from my daughter. What you tell me, you may tell her and vice versa."

Andre sighed and told them the whole story, as much as they knew, from start to finish. Alethia listened intently and became absorbed in the story, feeling the sadness for the Phantom, so they called him, and even through the scornful words of the previous managers, she felt that he had not deserved at that had happened. On some level, she even sympathized with him; if the rarity of love was just beyond her grasp, she would fight for it, as he had. He was not a troublesome specter with supernatural abilities, but just simply a man, a human being carrying an immense amount of pain on his shoulders.

They finished the story and still those thoughts lingered with her, in her compassionate and intelligent mind.

"Where do you suppose he has gone?" she asked them.

Seemingly caught off guard by her intervention, Firmin gathered his thoughts. "Right after the chandelier fell, killing god knows how many, an angry mob gathered backstage. Everyone had finally had enough and stormed down to the catacombs, intent on finding his home and ripping him to shreds. We left after that and never came back, hoping to escape this nightmare. Until now." He shivered.

Her father processed he had heard, weighing his love for the Opera Populaire and the infamy of the Phantom of the Opera, that may or may not still reside in its depths. Finally he spoke.

"May we take a look around? To see the true damage I mean."

"Why sure, if you don't mind us staying behind." Andre snickered.

"Very well," her father said opening a door (with some difficulty) that wasn't boarded up and allowing a very eager Alethia to step inside, then stepping over the threshold after her.


	2. Hades' Own Hell

**Hades' Own Hell**

Five years. Five long lonely years since she had left him for that foolish boy. And thought of her innocent beauty or angelic voice still made his heart ache with a yearning no one, not even himself, could understand. The only thing that separated his memories from his heart was his music; the music that would never see the light of day; the music that had long since become everything he knew. Sometimes his body would yet again remember, long for her, and he would transform into an animal, destroying everything in his wake. Then not long afterward, his body would succumb to continuous sobs. After he could cry no longer, his eyes would become cold and returned to his music.

Could he have done anything different to save him from this fate? Could he have been completely honest to Christine and find his way into her heart that way? Could he have saved himself the loneliness and monotony by sparing the chandelier that lead to the fire? Could he just end it all with a drop of poison, his own lasso, or his own sword? He did not want to die. But he also found no point to live, which ultimately lead to be ultimately condemned in his own purgatory; a cold, dark hell.

And then he heard voices above his home, above the misty lake and the hundred candles and the single swan bed. First it was rage that invaded his thoughts and a loud roar escaped his lips and he knocked over a golden candelabra.

_How dare they enter my opera house? Has society not inflicted enough pain upon this deserted beast?_

But the fury quickly turned to curiosity.

_Truly, who would come here to a blackened, forgotten building that was rumored to be haunted by me, the Opera Ghost?_

He thought, and he came to the conclusion that the voices above must be those of dirty street rats seeking shelter. Well not in his domain. Amusement spread over his face and he grabbed his cloak, slipping the heavy black fabric over his broad shoulders as he ascended, leaving his underworld behind.

_Sorry this chapter is so short, I had to give Erik a little filler time. ;)_


	3. The Phantom's Presence

**The Phantom's Presence**

The only sound that Alethia could make as she entered steps into the grand foyer was a gasp. This time the only expression she could make was an astounded smile. Her feet unconsciously glided her body over the charcoaled marble, under the once golden archway, and to the middle of the room. A dozen candelabra still circled the room's walls and faded golden statues of nude angels that beckoned her into the theater stood at either side of the curved staircase... And what a staircase it was! The steps were at least a foot wide, each made of the whitest marble she had ever seen, whiter that the marble many of temples of Greece where constructed out of. She ran her hand along a rail, feeling the dust and soot upon it, but nonetheless, appreciating the smooth, flawless feel of stone underneath the grime. She climbed the flight of steps until her feet stopped right in front of circle whose words read _Theatre Opera Populaire_, complete with a star in the center.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and heard her father whisper "Utterly beautiful, is it not my dear Alethia?"

"Oh Papa, it is everything that you said it would be!" she exclaimed turning to him. "I could stand here forever and not soak in its entire splendor, even regardless of the condition it is now!"

Her father smiled and said "With work, we can return it to the magnificence it knew before." He paused. "But you still have not seen the theater. Come my dear," he said taking her hand.

The foyer was not completely dark, but from the light coming through the open door and between the boards covering the other doors, there was enough light to see a few details. But as they journeyed even farther away from the light into the theater, it became almost impossible to see. Even so, her astute eyes parted the curtain of darkness and perceived the rows and rows of red velveteen seats, the shattered chandelier in the middle of those rows, and the enormous stage set at the back of the room.

In the attempt to get a better look, she sauntered toward the stage, removing a glove so as to run her hand over the seats; cobwebs caught themselves in between her fingers, but she was not that concerned. The once beautiful and luxurious grand curtain hung in blackened tatters on the either side of it, and the backdrop fared no better. However, Alethia could still slightly identify the painted canvas that was used the night of the Opera Populaire's untimely demise. She looked up to the huge painted domed ceiling and the dozens more of nude golden angels adorning and framing it.

An overwhelming feeling of sadness cascaded over her emotions. How could someone willingly and knowingly destroy such a work of structural artwork, let alone cease all the performances created in its depths? Even for love, or even for pain, it seemed like such a selfish waste to kill a channel of the performing arts. A little twinge of anguish struck at her heart's appreciation for music.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a small shift in a corner of the darkness, and her head whipped to the side. She felt an ominous, very male, presence surrounding her. But as soon as it had appeared, the theater was serene yet again. She turned around to look for her father. He was still at the back of the theater, apparently attempting to clear cobwebs off of the seats. She grinned, uttering a small chuckle, and walked back up the aisle toward him.

"We have a lot of work to do, Alethia," he sighed as she neared, sticking his hands in his pockets and surveying the theater again.

"Work that will be worth every second," she responded with a determined smile.

He returned the smile. "Alethia, when your mother died," he started, looking down at the floor, "I was devastated and I thought everything I had known was gone. But the moment she was gone, you were in my arms, looking up at me with those big, intelligent eyes with the most beautiful smile on your face," he said smiling fondly at her. "At that moment I knew that you were a blessing to have as a daughter."

He drew her into his arms and they shared a paternal embrace that almost made Alethia cry. She loved her father dearly. She didn't know what she would do if anything ever parted them. All her life, he had provided her with wisdom, advice, parental love, and security. He stroked her hair warmly.

"This is our new life in Paris, as owners of the Opera Populaire. We will restore it beyond its former glory."

He released her and she joyfully said,"Yes father, it shall be done. It seems ever since hearing your countless stories about this place, I have been waiting all of my life to see it; it became my dream. And even now, my dream is fulfilled."

Her father beamed and they walked hand in hand out of the theater, down the staircase, and into the light where the ex-managers waited rather impatiently, as if they were afraid of seeing a ghost.


	4. The Phantom's Lullaby

_Disclaimer: I do not own the song in this chapter. The song is called Lullaby by Emmy Rossum on her album _Inside Out._ Happy Erik thoughts!_

**The Phantom's Lullaby**

They returned the next day to do what work just two people could do and also for her father to compile a list of everything that needed to be replaced, let alone everything that need to be scrubbed, polished, and cleaned. Meanwhile, Alethia wandered through the rest of the opera house, candlestick in hand, throwing what light she could throughout the pitch black dormitories and dressing rooms behind the theatre. When she entered what looked like the lead soprano's dressing room, judging it as so by how extravagant the abandoned furniture appeared, she lit the candles around the room. Thinking she was obviously alone, her mind and body gave way to frivolous desires spinning around the room. Suddenly the phantom invaded her thoughts and once again she felt his sadness. She decided to hum a Greek lullaby for him, hoping that he was still here and might be listening.

He stalked up and down the secret passageways within the walls of the opera house, deep in thought. Violation was an inevitable emotion that the Phantom was feeling at the moment, but another feeling was conflicting with that; many more actually. He still seemed curious at their presence, the father and daughter that were going to be the new managers of his opera, hence the reason why he had not killed them outright as soon as they had entered the dark theatre. Still more, he had been sure the girl had seen, or even felt, his movements in the darkness which fascinated him even more. It had been _quite_ dark. It was almost as if she had perceived him, as if her sixth sense had reached out and knew he was there.

He had wanted to purge them from the building so that yet again he could have his peace. But something occurred to him; what was his peace but loneliness and solitude among his torturous thoughts?

He truly did not know what he wanted. Such was his confusion until he stopped dead in his tracks as he heard a very faint, yet extraordinary humming reverberating through the walls. His head twisted around to find the source and was shocked as he realized it was coming from the Prima Donna's dressing room. Christine's dressing room.

_Christine, _he thought. A lump of pain formed in his throat as her name filled his thoughts. He shook his head and barely brushed the thought away as his feet took him to his destination. He stopped in front of the window/mirror and to his astonishment, laid his eyes upon the girl from the theatre, still humming.

She twirled around the room with stunningly graceful movement, a smile on her face and her eyes closed as her voice intoxicated the air. Finally she opened her lips to sing:

_Ah-ah-ah-ahh_

_Ah-ah-ah-ahh_

_Laying alone with the history that made you cold and uncertain inside_

_Careful now, deep breath, the water's still rising_

_But your silver lining is inside_

A sharp breath caught in his throat.

_When you, you feel like you're breaking down_

_And you, your body's just giving in_

_And you, you can't go on broken like this any longer_

_Close your eyes, don't you cry, let the sorrow within you subside_

_Don't despair, have no fear, give your weight to me when you hear this lullaby_

_You say all seems so wrong with the life that you're living_

_You're searching for some reason why_

_You're so scared to trust, you're feeling unworthy, aching for comfort tonight_

_When your heart's too sore to beat_

_And you, you fear it might never heal_

_And you, you feel not even beggars want you, I do_

_Close your eyes-_

Just as a tear was making its way down his cheek, he heard distant voices, loud, laughing, mocking voices. And then a man's angry shout, followed by a single gunshot. At this, the girl gasped and ran out of the room.

Regaining his senses and brushing his shock and emotion aside, the Phantom ran along the tunnel, fury lining his senses at his silence being disturbed, as well as the girl's song. What the hell was happening in his Opera House?


	5. Departure

**Departure**

Alethia dashed along the dark halls, desperation dredging remembrance of the way she came. The voices became softer and as she made her way to the grand foyer, her father came in view.

"No! No! Father!" she screamed as she crashed onto the cold marble floor of the balcony.

Blood covered his chest and was pooling around him. Tears flowing freely down her face and sobs racking her body, she took his hand and squeezed it, as if she could keep him alive if she held on. She didn't know what else to do. Shock and panic filled her mind. Surely this was a dream, her father couldn't be lying in front of her, slowly dying…could he?

Finally, through fits of coughing on his own blood, he whispered to her, "Alethia, get away….from here, it's not safe, go and…and hide from those men," he pleaded.

"No father, I will not leave you!" she cried. "You're all that I have."

He heaved painfully, clasping his wound with his other hand. Realizing that his last moments where upon him, he spoke his final words to his daughter.

"Stay true to yourself, Alethia," reaching his blood-soaked hand to point at her heart. "Be strong even when you feel weak. You are everything a father could hope for my daughter," he whispered, smiling in his pain.

As the voices became louder and the mayhem they left in their wake grew closer, she did not notice as her father laid his head back and breathed no more. She shook him and she begged him to wake up, still sobbing as the men circled around her snickering as they decided what to do with her. Unwanted arms and fingers wrapped themselves around her body and forcefully dragged her away from him. She screamed, fighting their overwhelming strength. Remembering her father's last words, she fought for all she was worth until they held her arms and legs down and gagged her with a rag, and still she struggled in vain. Suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her stomach and looked down to find a black handle sticking of her, mingled with blood, her blood. She dimly felt one of them lift up her dress and take hold of her thighs.

Finally she gave up. Let them rape her, let them kill her. She didn't have anything else to live for. Her body went limp and she prepared herself for what was to come. And she waited.

But nothing came. In fact, the filthy hands pinning her to the ground disappeared. In her half-conscious haze, her eyes fluttered and she turned her head to the size, where a black cloaked shape swirled around her.

She feebly rolled to her side, but a sharp pain made her gasp and her hand flew to wrap around the knife that impaled her. She shuddered and dimly recognized strong hands lifting her and she fell into the dark world of unconsciousness.

Maybe it was something about her voice that made him save her. Or perhaps just the song alone was enough. Or even those drunk, worthless demons that had tried to infect his domain. He would have killed them anyway, but he could not follow through with finishing the job the knife had started.

So he placed her within the safety of his arms and took her to his home in the bowels of the Opera Populaire. Finding tenderness within his grasp that he was until now unaware of, he laid her upon the velvet blankets of his mother's bed and gently removed the knife from her abdomen, applied a healing poultice of herbs on her wounds, and neatly bandaged it.

It was until then that he allowed himself to notice her soft and maidenly features. His eyes came to rest upon her face, and all his movements ceased; the phantom of the opera himself, in all his glory, stood in a stunned bewilderment.

Despite her injury, her sun-kissed skin glowed amid the hundreds of flickering candles, which, combined with her fragile facial bones, projected perfect shadow over her face. Gracefully arched eyebrows rested upon her flawless flesh and her nose, concave between her eyes and slightly upturned at the end, formed to create an incredible elegance. Thick, dark, and natural eyelashes curled around her eyelids and he surprised himself with a desperate hope that she would once again open them so he could know the color of her eyes. Her lips were a totally different story from her other features; if he could describe lust, her the shape of her mouth match the description entirely. Slightly parted, they were full and swelled with a pale olive color, matching her skin. Her neck arched delicately beneath her cascade of brown hair, which held streaks of gold in its tresses. Involuntarily, his fingers reached out to stroke its silky softness, gasping at the contact.

He tore himself away from her, rushing out of the alcove before he lost himself even further.

_Reviews please please please! Merci beaucoup! Kisses for Erik! Teehee._


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